


Papercuts

by Zoni



Category: Kuroshitsuji : The Most Beautiful DEATH in the World - Iwasaki/Mori/Mari, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26615791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoni/pseuds/Zoni
Summary: While their secret after work get togethers have become a source of comfort for Alan, there's one subject that's off-limits. When he decides to push the boundaries, he drives a wedge between himself and Eric that might lead to a new understanding of why he pulls away.
Relationships: Alan Humphries/Eric Slingby
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Papercuts

The world is condensed in the nooks and crannies of Alan Humphries's small flat. The remnants of everyday life are scattered across shelves and side tables, pieces of art and trinkets that have been acquired here and there, or brought home when someone else has abandoned them in the Dispatch's Lost and Found for an indecent amount of time. His entire home is decorated this way, as if life had just sort of stumbled through the front door and made itself at home.

But for Alan Humphries, home was not defined by the things in it so much as the atmosphere that fills the rooms. On nights like that, that is made up of warmth, companionship, and badly made tea. The living table in the drawing room was covered with folders, papers, and hand-scrawled notes on scraps of both that were meant to be placeholders. Spaced throughout were a pot of ink for the fountain pen Alan insisted on signing forms with, two teacups, a plate of well-ignored biscuits falsely claiming French origin, and at least seven individual ledgers, not even one opened.

Despite the neglected action abandoned on the coffee table, the remains of the fight with bureaucracy were still evident on the laps of the two men sitting on opposite twin sofas. Alan's collection of forms was made up primarily of the delayed filing reports that had been accumulated during the last three and a half weeks across their entire department. Eric had done the brave thing and volunteered the task of reviewing weekly complaint forms, most of which dealt with Grell, but all of which still required summarizing, cataloging, and some form of response. While work was the focus, the tasks were made easier by the quiet comfort between them, highlighted by the crackling of the warmth of the logs burning in the fireplace.

Few people relished taking their work home, but this was the part of the week Alan looked forward to most. On occasion, he would even slack of slightly at work just to make sure there was still something to be done, even though the very effort of doing so went against his grain. Even then, these nights didn't always go as planned. Sometimes they would fall by the wayside as he dealt with the effects of his disease, or Eric might bow out after finding himself preoccupied with parties or whatever else it was that he got up to outside of the office. But when they did happen, these nights were what kept Alan going. They were why he had never requested a transfer to a desk position or a quieter office. After all, neither of those would have made for such good conversation.

"Bloody hell," came the expected commentary from the opposite couch. Eric held up one of the complaint sheets, squinting at it to make sure he was reading it correctly. "I'm used to the sexual harassment complaints from the men about Grell, but I think this one's actually from a woman."

"What's the name?" Alan glanced up from his own paperwork, not bothering to hide his amusement.

Eric squinted at the paper again. "Adele... Fitzherbert? I can't tell, she's basically stabbed the paper with her pen while she's writing it up. Says Department 17."

Alan lowered his pen and thought for a moment. "That's the secretary pool for Recovery. Adelia?"

"That's the one."

"She's got red hair," Alan pointed out, still smiling. "I think Grell's envious. Hers is natural."

"Is it better than his?"

Glancing over at Eric, Alan met his eyes. "That depends on whether you like his, I suppose."

Eric snorted loudly. "No, thank you."

Returning his attention to the papers in front of him, Alan sighed. A quick glance at the clock revealed the reason for his exhaustion. "It's already past one. I can't bring myself to look at another one of these reports tonight."

With that, the papers in front of him were placed in a folder and slid neatly into place alongside the stack of ledgers, ready to be ignored along with all the rest. Eric's own paperwork joined the pile as the supervisor stretched out across the cushions, yawning widely as Alan began to gather up the remains of their snacks; he knew better than to offer help.

The mess, the smell of tea, and even the lingering scent of Eric's cigarettes that clung to his clothes hours after he'd had the last one all added to the texture of the flat. Each element was just as necessary as the next to make it feel like home for Alan. This routine, even if it happened only a few times each week, was something important even if it meant that he'd still be cleaning up the dishes and wandering crumbs the next morning.

Returning from the kitchen, Alan doused one of the oil lamps on the mantlepiece and sank down onto the couch next to Eric. He took a moment to take in the lay of the land that was the work they had just abandoned. In his absence, Eric had taken some of the excess papers and shifted them off the sofa they were both sitting on to make room for him and lessen the danger of imminent collapse.

Of course, that had also been done to make for a more comfortable way of lounging. There was no point in telling Eric to take his feet off the couch, especially when he'd bent one leg to make sure Alan had enough room. Instead, Alan asked, "Does William still want you to come in for that review next week?"

"Yeah, that's what he says," Eric allowed. "I don't know if it's so much a review as him trying to stick his nose into everything I'm working on. The whole department's been behind for the last two months, but it's not like that's any of my doing."

"He asked me to come in for a review next week too," Alan told him quietly.

At that, Eric sat up a little straighter. "Did he say why?"

"Performance."

With that single word, the once-comfortable atmosphere filled with tension. If he looked over at Eric, Alan knew exactly what he would see: brows knit together, lips turned down in a frown. Eric had never approved of William's methods of dealing with departmental deficiencies when those issues happened to be related to Alan.

"It's not like it's unwarranted," Alan said quickly, pointing out the obvious. "Last month, everybody else in Collections averaged at least four cases a week. I had barely three for the entire month, and that one week I didn't get anything done. And my paperwork was late for the cases I _did_ handle."

"You were in the infirmary," Eric said flatly. "He knows that."

Alan gave him a soft smile. He reached over to lay a hand reassuringly on Eric's arm to calm him down, but the supervisor pulled away before Alan's fingers had even settled. Another failed attempt at breaking down the barriers between them, the ones kept firmly in place despite Alan's best efforts.

Considering Eric's response, Alan asked, "Are you saying I can't keep up with you and the others? Grell, at least?"

This was a dangerous question. If Eric said yes, he would insinuate that Alan was weak. But if he said no, he would admit that Alan was as culpable as any of them for the fewer reapings and slow casework. This was an argument that Eric couldn't win, and one which Alan had gotten particularly good at in the past few months.

"I'm saying there are certain factors he needs to consider," Eric said after a long moment, a clear attempt at diplomacy. Even in the fading light of the fire in front of them, the war of emotions was plain to see on Eric's face. There was a deep desire to protest further or maybe even start down the usual avenue of pushing for Alan to request reassignment to some position that wouldn't be so trying.

"Maybe I don't want him to take the thorns into consideration," Alan responded. "And you shouldn't, either."

The Thorns of Death were easier to think about with distance. He knew that when the next attack came, he would be writhing in pain, begging for the end, and wondering when his body would finally give him permanent relief from the illness. The not knowing was one of the worst parts, nearly as bad as the disease itself. Any attack could be the last. Just then, it was the last thing he wanted to think about.

A heavy sigh from the other side of the couch said more than the entire conversation. They had reached their truce for the night. There would be no more ground won or lost in this battle.

"It's late," Eric said, stretching broadly. "I should probably head home."

Along with the paperwork and lackluster snacks, this was another ritual of theirs. This one was still being shaped, a process that had dragged out for longer than Alan had expected. Making enough headway with Eric to get him to spend any appreciable amount of time in the flat had taken months, suffering occasional setbacks from little missteps on Alan's part and the occasional argument that couldn't be cleaned up with pretty words and smart statements.

Still, Alan knew the motions well enough. He waited for Eric to go through the customary exaggerated yawn that suggested that walking the half-mile to his own, much less cozy abode was a challenging task that would likely end with him being run over by a carriage in the street. That was the situation Eric himself had colorfully suggested the first night he had landed himself an invitation.

Already moving off the cushions, Alan watched him out of the corner of his eye. "You could just stay here tonight. I'm closer to the office anyway, and you'll have to be up and moving again in a few hours. Morning shift, right?"

"Right. Thanks." Eric tossed his head to one side, offering a lazy smile as a reward for the offer of a place to stay. "If it's not an imposition, of course."

That was the signal for Alan to get up and begin acting like the good host, gathering up spare blankets and chasing down a pillow so the houseguest might feel at home despite the lack of a spare bed. But even though he knew what he should do, Alan could not stop thinking about Eric's earlier words.

Staring at the coffee table, covered in work that now looked unfairly weighted to Eric's general disadvantage, Alan asked, "Do you really think I can't keep up with you?"

There was a noticeable shift beside him. The leg tossed on the cushion was pulled back and lowered to the floor, arms reined in as Eric sat up properly. The cushions slanted slightly in his direction, following the weight of the situation.

"'S not like that and you know it," Eric told him. "You're a damn fine reaper. Better than half the guys in our unit. Hell, better than the entire Leeds office and you know it."

"But..." There was always a but.

Eric lifted one hand and left it hovering awkwardly in the air, a good six inches from Alan's shoulder. After a moment, the hand was retracted. Apparently, even a reassuring pat on the shoulder was past the invisible line Eric drew between them. Looking away, he said, "You have limits. Nothing wrong with having limits."

"You have limits too," Alan pointed out, looking at him directly. "It's not like you don't have issues you deal with out in the field."

Eric frowned. "That's different."

"How?"

Eric raked a hand through the loose side of his hair, tugging the blond strands back away from his face. "My weaknesses are... mental. Like how I can't stop worrying about some bloke in my unit who keeps putting himself in dangerous situations he could easily avoid."

Alan felt slightly guilty at that comment, but he swallowed it down. "And you're saying that's better than... my situation."

Another dead-end comment. Eric had two avenues he could take: he could either acknowledge the fact that the thorns of death were something Alan had brought upon himself by accident or will, or he could ignore the situation altogether.

Choosing a different avenue, Eric told him, "I can't choose when to be worried about someone any more than you can choose when you get sick. But if I could, I'd at least want to make sure I didn't make anybody else worry about me more in the process."

Alan had a dozen different prepared responses that he had managed to cook up, most of them hovering somewhere between feisty and downright rude. Somehow, none of them seemed appropriate after that unexpected response.

The careful six inches between them had never been so obvious or quite so warm.

"I'm glad you're here tonight," Alan said simply.

Eric looked at him and returned his gaze with a sad smile, the sort of look that made Alan think there was more on his mind than their petty arguments. These happened frequently, but they were never enough to drive a wedge between the two of them.

"For what it's worth," Eric said, "I'm glad you let me stay over on nights like this."

"It makes things seem a little less lonely when you're here," Alan murmured. Unable to continue looking at the ghost of pity he could see on Eric's face, he turned away to study the shadows of the firelight dancing on the wall. The one person he cared about, the one companion whose presence he craved, and they were reduced to conversations like these, stolen in the early morning hours of workdays.

The warmth of a hand on his back startled him slightly. No gloves: Eric’s hands were bare and warm despite the edge of chill that had started to creep into the room as the fire grew lower. Alan could feel nearly ever knuckle against his back, even through the cotton of his shirt. Eric never touched him if he could avoid it, outside of attacks from the thorns. At least, not when it might mean something.

Leaning forward, Eric met his eyes for a moment before looking away. Quietly, he admitted, "Before I met you, I was alone too."

"You?" Alan questioned skeptically. "Alone?"

That was a difficult image to parse. When the two of them weren't spending their free evenings together piling on the paperwork, Eric was often preoccupied with social matters. Parties, occasionally with scandalous retellings that would make their way around the office for weeks, and other matters of acquaintance always seemed to take a high priority in his life. This secret was something guarded.

The hand against Alan's back tightened slightly as Eric sighed. "Yeah, but you managed to change that. For the better, I think. Thanks for that."

Moments like these are rare. Something in the way that Eric meets Alan's eyes when he looks over at him once again spoke to the admission being about more than just understanding the need for companionship. But as rare as these things were, Alan knew it wouldn't last. That something more in Eric's expression was the same unspoken thing that always caused Eric to pull away. But Eric's hand was on his back, and his fingers were warm.

Taking a chance, Alan reached over and found Eric's other hand, wrapping it between both of his own. There it was: the startle. The sudden, automatic jolt of Eric pulling away is as predictable as the seasons, but Eric doesn't. Instead, he tenses incredibly, as though every muscle in his body has suddenly condensed to stone. Then, unexpectedly, Alan felt the slight squeeze of fingers against his own as Eric moved to hold his hand, as well. For all their disagreements, this was something where they both had a perfect understanding. In that moment, neither of them was alone.

Moments of awkward silence were spent with Alan memorizing the feel of Eric sitting so close. But, while nothing terribly scandalous has happened, even that is past the line that Eric keeps firmly in place, the one they don't discuss. Having stolen some ground, Alan wondered if he might be able to push against that line a little more. He wanted to know if the quiet comfort of holding Eric's hand and feeling the other against his back was all that was permitted.

But to push boundaries, he would first have to pull away. Letting Eric's hand slide out of his own, Alan sighed and got to his feet. Making his way out of the sitting area, he headed for the hall closet to retrieve the customary extra bedding. With the hall closet open, he knew he had plenty of bedding for guests. Still, he decided to make an offer that would cross the line.

"I have an extra quilt in the back closet," Alan called out, "but it gets very chilly out here once the fire dies even with the blankets."

While not overt, the suggestion contained in the innocuous sentence was bold. He had tried asking plainly once before in much more obvious terms, but that had resulted in a half-alarmed, half-scandalized reaction from Eric that had almost been worth the grief it brought. All things considered, the reaction had been more dramatic than the relatively innocent suggestion that Eric share his bed had warranted. After all, the sofas were much too small to properly accommodate someone of Eric's height and there were no spare beds in the flat.

When he emerged from the closet and looked to see Eric's reaction, Alan was surprised at the look on his face. Eric wasn't frowning. Instead, there was a look closer to a grimace, as though the words were more than he could take.

Alan didn't ask why. Instead, he said, "You can tell me to stop, you know."

"Alan..."

"It's fine."

The stack of quilts, three deep, was set down on the second couch. Alan turned to head to the bedroom to retrieve his spare pillow, but he was stopped by the weight of a hand on his arm holding him in place. Turning to look at Eric, he found the supervisor staring at the floor.

"You don't know me," Eric told him.

"Of course I know you."

"You don't," Eric insisted. Following the weight of the words, Alan lowered himself to sit next to Eric as he continued. "We've got these nights like this and loads of days in the office and field together, but you don't know me. Not really. You wouldn't like what you'd find if you did. You shouldn't be saying things like that to me."

The words were colored heavily with two things Alan had extensive experience with: self-loathing and self-doubt. There was no point in saying that he knew Eric despite all of that or protesting that it didn't matter.

A long moment of silence passed before Alan settled on the proper response.

"You might be right," he admitted. "I don't know everything about you. And you're also right that I wouldn't like everything about you if I did. I don't even like everything I know about you now, like how often you smoke. You can also be mean to some of the people in our department, maybe even cruel. And I've seen you show up hours late to work more than once, wearing a sweat-soaked shirt and smelling like Scotch whisky."

Beside him, Eric made a wordless sound. The harsh statement hung in the air for a moment before the entire couch shifted to one side as Eric got to his feet. "I think I should go."

"But the Eric I know is also the sort of man who watches out for the people around him," Alan continued, ignoring him. "You come here on nights like this and put up with afterhours work and bad tea when you think I might be pushing myself too hard. You put up with me saying things you don't like because your worry for me outweighs your own discomfort. That is the Eric I know, and I can't dislike someone who could do that."

The couch shifted once more as Eric sat back down, abandoning his efforts to leave. A great unknown something filled the air, interrupted only by the sound of the mantle clock ticking away the minutes as they slid past.

"Why do you ask..." Eric paused, taking a breath. "Why do you say those things to me?"

"About knowing you?"

"About wanting me in your bed."

The blunt response was more direct than mentions of a chilly living space or the lack of a spare room. If he expected a denial from Alan, he would be disappointed.

Rather than giving a verbal response, Alan simply turned to look at him. All the fight and feist of the day was gone, all pretenses dropped. The only thing left in his features was plain, naked honesty that spelled out the truth more clearly than words could have managed.

To his credit, Eric did not respond immediately. He took a long moment simply gauging what he was seeing, considering and processing the information in a way that was just as visible. Confusion was replaced by concern, and finally a look that could only be defined as regret.

"Christ, Alan. _Why_?"

The question was not dignified with an answer. In truth, Alan did not have an answer to give. He might have offered something going back to the days when he was nothing but a trainee, or even cited the camaraderie that had developed since he had been diagnosed with the thorns of death, but none of that would provide an explanation. The only thing he knew was that Eric would have already walked out the door if he was as offended as his reaction suggested.

"I'm sorry," Alan murmurs.

"Alan, that's not--" Eric got to his feet once more, but not to leave. He paced back and forth across the small sitting room, getting as far away as physically possible while still being in the same space. "That's not... no, don't apologize. Not for that."

In the space of a breath, Eric had taken the open secret about why they had these evenings in the first place and thrown it out. Talk about the office and excess paperwork aside, Alan had never made much pretense about his reasons for inviting Eric over on nights like these. And while it had never been stated explicitly, and despite Eric's own protests of his actions, Alan was certain of the reason that he usually accepted.

But sitting there with all the cards on the table, nothing changed.

Eric offered no explanation for his reaction to something he almost certainly already knew. He wasn't ashamed. He didn't care about Alan's own leanings. He had never hinged the acceptance of an invitation for a night of work and conversation on the fact that it would be entirely innuendo-free. He simply resisted, but only when it came to a head.

"They're right, aren't they?" Alan asked suddenly.

"Who?"

"Ronald, Grell, William. All of them."

Eric stared at him blankly. "What do you mean?"

"You use people."

"What? I don--"

Alan cut him off, hitting his breaking point. "You're not stupid, Eric. You don't need me to tell you why I do what I do. Every time you come over here, you drink tea, eat biscuits, and we talk. We talk a lot. I've never quite figured it out, why they think you're such a bother, but I think I'm starting to understand. You use people! You don't really care, but at least this way you won't have to get rejected by Adelia Fitzhugh--"

"Fitzherbert."

"Whatever. You know _I_ won't push you away. You can come over here two or three times a week and feel like somebody gives a damn without any obligation to give a damn yourself. It's not like anybody even knows you come over here, so you get to escape the social disgrace of spending time with me, as well. You get all the plusses with none of the minuses. You win."

The words ran out. Alan felt himself run out of breath with the last of them. Not even a minute of ranting and he was red in the face, muscles tense. All the warning signs were there for another attack of the thorns just waiting in the wings for the worst possible time to strike. Stress always made the disease works, but it was almost worth it just to say the things he had thought about more than once.

Eric stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. "You really think that?"

Alan leaned back against the cushions, trying to catch his breath. For all the fire in his words, he didn't believe most of what he had said. Most of it had been frustration. After all, he knew that Eric cared about him. He knew that Eric cared a great deal, maybe even enough to put his own career on the line. Work was one thing, but they both knew that the higher ups wouldn't be pleased with one of their supervisory staff spending off-duty time with a reaper best used as a cautionary tale for trainees. Even so, the words still carried a hint of truth.

Alan sighed. "What I think doesn't matter."

Reduced to barely more than burning coals, the light of the dying fire was barely enough to show the look of devastation on Eric's face. Framed against the doorway that led into the entry, hands held in an unmistakable expression of frustration, the look of pain Alan had seen on his face earlier seemed to define him just then.

All pretenses were gone as Eric told him, "I would never use you like that. Not in a thousand years."

"Then why?"

Returning to the sitting area, Eric lowered himself so that he was barely sitting on the edge of the second sofa that was filled with discarded paperwork and quilts. "Why do I come over here on nights like this? Because maybe I like the tea, and talking with you, and talking shit about work. Because I don't have to act the way I do in the office. Because you're my friend. Isn't that enough?"

"Is that the only reason?" Alan knew the question was petty. A small wave of pain flashed through his chest as he asked, highlighting the brief sting of regret as he asked.

Eric frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Answer my question."

Running a hand through his hair again, Eric sighed. "Don't push this, Alan. Please. Let this be enough."

Another wave of pain rocked through Alan's body. Fisting his hands tightly in the fabric of his trousers, it took everything he had not to cry out. He hoped Eric wouldn't notice. When he could breathe, he said, "I think you should leave."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Eric asked again, clearly concerned. "Alan, I think you need to lie down."

"Leave, please."

"Look, I'm not going to just l--"

Alan cried out, doubling over as the thorns tightened their grip, his entire body seizing up with pain that seemed to crawl through him from the inside out.

"Alan!" Instinctively, Eric got to his feet and moved the short distance to the other sofa, ready to lend a hand in any way necessary. Instead, he was shoved away as soon as he got within arm’s reach.

"Leave," Alan panted, the word turning into a whine as the attack continued to assault him. The hand he had used to shove Eric away snapped back to his chest, uselessly trying to block the sensation.

"Don't be an idiot. You can be pissed at me later," Eric insisted gruffly. "We need to get you to your room. You know it gets better when you lie flat."

Much as he had done dozens of times before, Eric moved to help Alan off the couch. He slid a hand to Alan's back, but he was quickly pushed away once more.

"I don't need--ah!--your help," Alan breathed raggedly. Still fighting the attack, he pushed himself weakly off the cushions, getting to his feet and rocking unsteadily. When Eric moved to provide support, Alan shot him a glare. "I told you to leave."

"Not until I know you're safe."

Ignoring him, Alan began making his way past the couch, towards the hall that led to his room. Two steps past the hall arch, he felt his chest constrict as an intense shocking sensation washed over him, far stronger than the tremors that had come before. He screamed and fell to the floor as the attack consumed him. The world went white around the edges, blurring any awareness of what was happening as strong arms picked him up off the floor and carried him the further twenty feet to his room.

With no heat in the bedroom that had been closed off from the rest of the house, the cold of the quilt on the bed was an unexpected relief. Alan stirred slightly, barely aware of Eric walking out of the room, finally following his request.

But a moment later, Eric rematerialized in the doorway. He carried the three quilts that had been taken out into the living room before the argument and set them on the bed. Shaking out the first two, he laid them carefully over Alan's body, making sure they would provide sufficient warmth. The third was left lying on the bed, within reach if it was needed.

Eric hovered by the edge of the bed momentarily. Alan could barely make out his shape in the darkness, but he could feel one hand still resting on the top quilt.

"You don't have to be so damned stubborn all the time," Eric told him, the words barely loud enough to be heard.

"Eric..."

"I know, I know." He pulled away, drawing his hand back like the quilt had offended him. He turned for the bedroom door, not looking back. "Get some rest. I'm going."

"That wasn't what I..." Alan started, so weak he could barely get the words out, but Eric was already gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, okay, I admit it: this was originally planned to be a one-shot lemon. I found the planning files, which have to be six or seven years old at this point, while looking for something else in my writing folder. I liked the beginning but hated the ending, so this is being turned into a three-parter that will hopefully be enjoyable. This is also one of extremely few stories where I haven't followed a strict plan while working on most of it.
> 
> One of my favorite parts of the Eric/Alan dynamic is the fact that Eric clearly pulls away, and we're never really given a clear explanation as to why. I have my own theories, but none of them really work well for a reveal before Alan actually knows what's happening, so I figured I'd at least take a shot at dropping some heavy hints while also taking a few shots at Grell. So cheers, we'll see how this goes.


End file.
